


Fire of My Loins

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Accidental Incest, Extremely Dubious Consent, Irony, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Irony:a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result.In which Enabran Tain falls victim to a viscious sort of irony, the sort of scathing mockery the ego can never recover from.





	Fire of My Loins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cyrelia_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/gifts).



Sometimes he thinks he'll catch faint traces of Elim: a set of bright blue eyes, laughter from an apartment, the scent of Elim—cheap and alien cologne—inhaled in passing, strong ridges on a face in a crowd. Enabran does not regret that he was harsh on Elim, the youth in his late teens—just barely old enough to be an adult in the eyes of Cardassian law but still young enough to be going through mood swings—putting up a bitter row before sulking and crying intermittent sobbing with quiet wandering, finally storming off into the night. Enabran only regrets that Elim was not stronger, that the young man did not bear Enabran's careful teachings with more grace.  
He looks for Elim in the street voles who line dark alleys, always willing to do anything depraved for a warm bed, warm meal, warm slips of latinum in their pockets. Enabran prefers the girls to the boys. The girls put up a show of giggling, trying too hard to be young and virginal to actually be believed. But they're comfort enough and they come cheaper.  
He always checks them for weapons and they never seem to notice.  
For the past few nights, Enabran has made a sort of game out of trailing one street vole—a boy this time—just watching him. The young man is for hire and he's handsome: strong ridges, broad shoulders, a slender waist, but he's lean and muscled, as if working the streets is a second job. But the way the young man accosts people is too graceful, too charming to be inexperienced.  
Enabran's been working up the confidence to ask the young man directly, to take him back to his home, hole up in the master bedroom all night. Enabran can afford it.  
"Lonely night, isn't it?"  
It seems Enabran's prey has caught him first.  
"Does it cost anything to walk a while?" Enabran asks.  
"I don't think so," the young man says, fixing Enabran with a dark stare. "It's a nice enough night."  
So they walked, taking in the cool evening—a rarity on Cardassia, usually only enjoyed after a heavy rain or just before a downpour—saying nothing. Tonight, the stars were blotted out by clouds, the air heavy with the anticipation of rain. The electric street-lights came on as they walked, but they were few, far-between, and some merely sparked a few times before giving lease to the darkness of the city. At this time, most families—those crammed into the tiny apartments of the city—were having their evening meal. The scent must have been attractive, since Enabran's companion would pause often, scenting the air and stomach growling.  
"Are you hungry?" Enabran asked.  
"No," his companion lied.  
"Come with me," Enabran said. "I have a housekeeper who can fix you a hot meal. I'll pay you for the whole night."  
His companion seemed to think this was very funny, laughing and making no attempt to hide it. Enabran found his face heated, scales flushing in humiliation.  
"You're a strange man," the young man said. "Not many people would offer a whore a meal."  
"I like to see my bedmates are cared for."  
"I'm sure."  
"What ever do you mean by that?" Enabran demanded.  
"Nothing," the young man said. "Nothing at all."

* * *

They make it inside just as the sky opens up with a downpour, rain falling heavy. As they step inside, Enabran's housekeeper is nowhere to be seen, perhaps asleep already or knowing enough by Enabran's late-night walks to know to stay out of his way.  
"Let me get you something to eat," Enabran offers.  
"You didn't pay me to eat," the young man says. "At least, not from the kitchen."  
Enabran narrows his eyes, delighted by his companion's innuendo. "Perhaps I can get you something after."  
The young man nods, making his way toward the stairs. "Perhaps."  
Enabran follows the younger Cardassian, placing a hand on his lower back, guiding him toward the master bedroom. Here, the sound of the rain is more palpable, thrumming through the whole of the room.  
Undressing the young man was like unwrapping a gift. His clothes were mended over and over, a detail Enabran only noticed after stripping his night's companion down, skill going into the stitches.  
But what enticed him more was his companion's scales. He was free of mites, unlike some of the other street voles he needed to hose down like animals before allowing them into bed, free of scales left over, stuck to them from improper shedding. He was a bit on the slim side, worrying Enabran that his companion did not eat nearly enough but the young man's scales shined as though freshly shed.  
He had good bone structure as well. Broad shouldered and wide-hipped but with a slender waist that demanded Enabran lay a hand on it—which he did—but also well-proportioned in the manner of his limbs. His arms were lean but muscled, as though he spent the days working docks. And the young man's thighs were similarly lean and muscled, but also delightfully thick.  
The young man's ridges were sharp, clear, the sign of good breeding and Enabran had only a passing thought about the sort of man who would throw such good genetics out into the streets of Cardassia.  
"Are you going to stare?" the young man asked, settling in Enabran's bed. "I thought you hired me for a specific purpose."  
Enabran nodded. "I like to inspect my purchases."  
The young man made a show of laying back in Enabran's bed, putting himself on display. "I think you'll be satisfied with this one."  
Enabran was, for the most part, impressed. It seemed such a shame that a well-built and clean street vole could be bought for such a low price. Enabran's companion could have worked at one of the more legal whorehouses, perhaps being spoiled by lonely Glinns instead of walking the streets at night.  
"I like what I see," Enabran said, starting to undress.  
The young man runs a hand up his thigh, teasing at his slit, putting on a show for Enabran. But he doesn't look at Enabran. It's nothing he's unaccustomed too. More than one young street vole has been attracted to him for purely generous reasons.  
Enabran raises a brow ridge. "You're distracted."  
"I usually am," his companion says, looking up at Enabran, fixing him with that dark stare. "This line of work has much to distract me."  
Enabran hums, joining his younger companion in bed. The younger man parts his thighs, allowing Enabran between them, grinding hips against hips. Enabran can't help but touch the younger Cardassian's chuva, delighting in the deep blue flush of arousal his fingertips leave. The younger man groans, his slit parted, the scales glistening with lubricant.  
Enabran traces the younger man's slit, relishing in his arousal. He manages to get two fingers into the younger Cardassian with ease, his slit well-used. Pressing just so, he coaxes the younger Cardassian's cock out of his slit.  
This is what Enabran has always savoured with the boys he's been with: the gently twitching phallus, the deep red-purple shaft, the glistening of natural lubricant, the taste of arousal in the air. He everts quickly, just looking at how undone the young man in his bed is.  
As he runs a finger down the younger man's shaft, Enabran notes, "I never caught your name."  
The younger man swallows back a moan. "Mila. It's Mila."  
Enabran raises a brow ridge, suspecting, but it seems to be the truth. It's a common enough name for common street voles and it might be a woman's name but, perhaps, it's a testament to the young man's profession. And this young man can't be the person Enabran suspects he is since—  
He shoves the thoughts violently from his mind, cutting them off like an antique wooden door slammed shut, firmly latched to keep the train of thought contained.  
"Mila," Enabran says, tasting the name on his tongue. It's bitter more than it's sweet. "Mila."  
"Just try not to say it too loudly. We shouldn't be overheard like this."  
"I'm not worried about—"  
"I'm just a man trying to make a living," Mila says, looking up at Tain. "I would be jailed, killed maybe."  
"The State isn't—"  
"Not to you, it isn't."  
Mila cuts off Enabran by grinding his slit against Enabran's, trying to spear himself on the older Cardassian's cock.  
Enabran groans, lining himself up with Mila's slit. He takes the younger Cardassian with a single thrust, their own natural lubricant and he younger Cardassian's skill both aiding the penetration. Mila's back arches, grasping at the sheets, the air pushed from his lungs. He makes a high sound, almost like a shriek.  
Enabran covers Mila's mouth with his hand. "We should be quiet, after all."  
Mila sets into rolling his hips against Enabran's, the muscles of his slit milking Enabran's cock.  
Enabran's free hand grasps at Mila's hip, hard enough to bruise the scales there. He fucks Mila roughly, fully intent on pounding the young man into the sheets for his own pleasure. Mila seems to enjoy being handled roughly, leaning into the callous touches, groaning against Enabran's hand.  
Between them, unattended, Mila's cock twitches, the tip brushing over the young man's chuva, painting the sensitive scaling with lubricant. Every pass of the reddish tip over the deep navy scaling spurs a hitch in Mila's breathing, driving a moan from the young man's throat.  
Enabran finds himself grabbing Mila just so by the throat, silencing him by applying pressure just so, cutting of Mila's breathing.  
There's a look of betrayal in the young man's eyes but an encouraging squeeze from his slit.  
Enabran lets up, lets Mila take a breath in good faith before applying that same delicate pressure, getting that same squeezing in response.  
Mila cums just like that, Enabran's hand around his throat and cock buried deep in his slit, Mila's length coating his abdomen with a splash of alabaster semen. The inner walls of Mila's genital slit clamp down on Enabran's length, milking him.  
Enabran doesn't hand time to ask whether he should pull out of Mila, filling the young man with pearlescent seed.  
He lets go of Mila, pulls out of him, the younger Cardassian's cock tucked back in its sheathe. The young man it overfull, unable to retain every drop.  
He's beautiful like this, panting to catch his breath, scales shining, hair dishevelled. Enabran lays on his side, facing the young man. He tucks a strand of Mila's hair back.  
Enabran, sated and satisfied his companion isn't dangerous, allows himself to fall into a light doze.  
His companion gets out of bed (to shower, perhaps, Enabran thinks) but the young man reaches down, into his vest pocket. He pulls a small container from within the fabric, setting it on the bedside table. It opens with a soft click that raises Enabran's suspicion.  
"You'll forgive me," the young man says, "but these contacts irritate me fiercely."  
And as Enabran watches the dark irises come away, a cosmetic enhancement, to reveal sharp ice-blue underneath.  
Enabran sits upright, glaring at the young man. "You!"  
The young man looks over, a brow ridge raised, one eye that shocking blue and the other so dark brown it’s almost black. "I?"  
"You tricked me."  
"You're a fool not to recognize your own son."  
The other dark contact is removed, revealing Elim's blue eyes. He fixes Enabran with a cold stare.  
And a shudder runs up his spine as he realizes just what he's done. His seed's not even dry on Elim's inner thigh.  
"Get out."  
"I plan to," Elim says coldly. "But I'll be sure to give mother your love on the way out."  
Enabran lunges, hoping to grab Elim but he ends up with the container of Elim's contacts, the younger Cardassian more lithe and nimble.  
"You're losing your touch, Enabran," Elim says. "Among other things."  
Enabran throws the vial at Elim, the glass shattering on Elim's raised forearm. Splinters embed themselves between his scales, droplets of blood coagulating almost as soon as they well up. And yet Elim smiles a manic smile.  
"You can only hurt me physically," Elim says.  
"Get out!" Tain shakes with rage but his voice is eerily smooth. "Get out, you disgusting whore."  
Elim gathers his clothes, taking his time dressing, almost flaunting himself all over again. Enabran looks away, but the image of Garak's slit dripping is burned into his mind.


End file.
